


Goodnight, Спокойной ночи

by Theghostinthemirror



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1945, A little oc, Cold War, F/M, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Kinda, RusAme, WW2, WWII, Yalta, canon is kind of not my fav, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24085510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theghostinthemirror/pseuds/Theghostinthemirror
Summary: It’s the Yalta conference, 1945Russia plays the happy hostess, America plays the happy guest.Wartime allies are not always friends.Sometimes they’re something more, sometimes they’re something less.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 12





	Goodnight, Спокойной ночи

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated!

“ Not on the carpet, thank you.” 

America looks down briefly, to the cigarette butt he’s about to crush, to the patterned oriental carpet. He weighs his odds.

“ You got an ashtray?” 

“ No, but extinguish that on my carpet and see what happens.” 

Fair enough. He clears out to the balcony and watches as the cigarette falls into the dust outside. She follows him out, lighting a cigarette of her own. 

“ Fancy carpet.” He grumbles, she hums, the lighter clicks. Even when slouching on the railing, she’s just a touch taller than him.

“ It was a gift.” He glances at her.

“ Come now, it’s not so inconceivable that I have friends besides you and the old man.” He laughs, but it’s partly hollow. He brushes himself off, looking to head inside.

“ Speaking of the old man, where is he?” She breathes out, smoke clouding the air, he feels suffocated. He doesn’t like this, being a guest. 

“ Helping himself to your famous liquor perhaps? Never could hold a shot, the old bastard.” He laughs and ruffles his hair and adjusts his glasses, perfectly awkwardly, perfectly boyishly—perfectly to irritate her. It’s not on purpose, this time.

“ No, I think he retired a while ago. The old bastard’s boss is getting up there, himself.” 

He swallows, angrily. Because  _ her  _ boss is such the picture of health! She walks past him, settling on the settee adjacent to the window.

“ Y’know, Russia,” He begins, assuming that childish manner. He postures around the room, pouring himself a shot of bourbon—Maker’s Mark bourbon she had imported specially, well shucks! She wouldn’t drink any of his manufacturing,  _ of course.  _ She always preferred the clear liquors anyway. But she wouldn’t want a guest uncomfortable.

“ We’re getting  _ so close _ , it makes you wonder, what comes next?”

She shot him a flickering gaze, so pale in the dim light, it unsettled him. 

“ No,  _ I’m  _ getting close. Forty miles out of Berlin. The reason you even came here is to ensure I don’t snag your spoils. Or was it perhaps that you think you need my help? With the Japanese?” 

He shields his scowl with a drink. 

“ Well, gosh, I know you Russkies can be cynical, but really—”

Her face is unreadable. He notices that she really is a plain looking woman. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before, when they first met. 

She had seemed so grand, she had an aura of whimsy. But here, in the lamp light, she looks so stern, so unflinchingly practical. She doesn’t fuss with the cigarette, doesn’t maneuver it between her fingers, she’s no vixen, not like France, she just plainly holds it. He doesn’t know why it pisses him off so bad.

“ You and I both know that you are not a child. Fool the old man all you will, don’t do that with me.” Frank, blunt, straightforward, frustrating.

“ Well then,” he huffs, he finishes his drink, and pours another. She exhales more smoke. And here they are; standing off. His mind conjures high noon, hers Ivanushka and the firebird.

“ You’re getting on my last goddamn nerve, if I’m honest.” 

She smiles at him.

“ Better.”

“ Oh, it is, is it?” He takes a drink, this one doesn’t sting as much as the last one.

“ I prefer your honesty to your performance. I’d rather go to the Bolshoi for that,” He smiles, she struts past him, to the balcony, where she drops the cigarette butt and pulls a fresh one out of the pack.

He takes another drink, empties the glass and follows her. She slips a cigarette between his teeth. It takes a couple tries to ignite the lighter, she tips it up to his cigarette, close enough that he can feel her puffs of breath. 

They look out to the street below, smoking in silence. She drops the cigarette off the edge.

“ Goodnight, America. Спокойной ночи.” 

He watches her leave. 

“ Night.” 

He collapses on the settee, and watches the cigarette butt burn a hole in her carpet.


End file.
